


Prosperity

by FeralPen



Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool (Movieverse), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Spaghetti Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralPen/pseuds/FeralPen
Summary: Far in the Southwest, on the edge of the desert, lies a little town called Prosperity. It's a humble little town, not much to look at, but it has secrets to it - secrets that could tear the town to the ground.





	1. Karen

**Author's Note:**

> This is my purely self-indulgent Defenders spaghetti western rewrite. Absolutely zero historical accuracy is going into this fic, because I'm basing it on western movies, which are incredibly self-indulgent on their own. I'm a Texas girl, and I've never been to New York, so here came this idea to recast the plot of the Defenders (while adding a few extras like Deadpool because why not?) in a setting I was more comfortable with. 
> 
> It's purely self-indulgent, and I'm having a blast.

She rode the train West as far as it went.

When she ran out of track, she kept going. Wagon trains, stagecoaches, just riding alone on horses she traded along the way. She kept going south and to the west until the land broke from forests to rolling plains to the grassland that’s just before the desert. Then she stopped.

There was a town there. The sign on the outskirts was painted with a careful hand, but the sun and the wind had already weathered its surface. Prosperity was the name of it. It hardly looked prosperous.

The town was small, but sturdily built. There was a high steeple of a church, modestly sized. A main street of storefronts, an inn, and a raucous building with music pouring out and women leaned on the posts outside. The whorehouse, then. The blacksmith’s shop on the outskirts of town filled the air with smoke and the sound of hammers on metal. She dismounted and led her horse into the town.

People stopped to look at her, but nobody stopped her as she marched in. A woman alone was remarkable, but not enough of a threat, even with her rifle holstered in the saddle and a pistol at her belt. It would be foolish for a woman to travel with no weapon. It was not remarkable enough to question her. She hesitated in the square, but her horse was thirsty, and she needed somewhere to stay. She led the dusky dun mare to the inn.

It was the biggest building in town, though that wasn’t saying much. The inn’s name was Providence. She tied the mare outside and stepped in. 

It was dimmer inside, and stuffy. There weren’t many folks inside this time of day, but the regulars looked up at her approach. She kept her head high as she marched to the bar. She didn’t remove her hat. There was a woman behind the bar, older, small, with a fierce grin.

“Well howdy, stranger,” the innkeeper said. “What brings a gal like you into our town?”

She rummaged in her belt for her purse. “I’ve been traveling. I need a place to stay, somewhere to keep my horse.”

The woman’s shark-like grin grew. “Of course, of course. I’m Dorothy Walker. This inn belonged to my husband, til the fool got his head kicked in by a horse.”

“Oh.” She faltered a little, counting out her dollars. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a bastard anyway. It’s just me and my girls, now. Patricia and Jessica. They’re around somewhere. And what’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Karen. Karen Page.”

“Karen. What a pretty name. And how long will you be with us, Karen?”

“For a time,” she said dismissively. “Until these run out.” She pushed a small stack of bills at the innkeep. Mrs. Walker’s fists clenched around the cash immediately.

“Of course, of course. Let me get some help for you, dear. Jessica!” The last was an ear-splitting screech. Karen flinched. “Jessica! We’ve got a guest.”

There was a slam from somewhere upstairs, then heavy thumps down the stairs. The girl that appeared was no older than Karen herself. She looked nothing like Mrs. Walker, all paleness and dark hair over a dress that had gone threadbare in patches. She eyed Karen critically, but walked past her to the front door. Mrs. Walker smiled.

“Would you like to see your room now, Ms. Page?”

Karen shook her head. “I’d like to see to my horse, ma’am. I’ll be back shortly.”

Mrs. Walker’s smile wavered, but she put it back on immediately. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Karen followed the girl, Jessica. She’d already untied the horse, and was leading it towards the inn’s stable with gentle murmurs and a firm hand when Karen caught up.

They were in the stable when the girl spoke up. “Don’t let her fool you. Dorothy’s a snake.”

Karen startled, but mustered a smile. “I caught that. She’s not actually good at being sweet.”

Jessica snorted inelegantly. “Yeah. She’d sell you to the first men who came through, if she could. Or drive you to debt and have you working it off at Elektra’s place.”

“Elektra?”

Jessica shrugged dismissively as she started stripping the horse’s tack. “Greek woman. Owns the whorehouse. She calls it ‘The Chaste Woman.’ She thinks she’s clever.”

“And what about you?” Karen asked as she took her saddle bags and rifle from the girl. “Is Dorothy really your mother?”

“Hell no,” the girl looked uncomfortable, but stubborn about it. “My parents and little brother got killed by bandits heading for Texas. I barely survived. Dorothy took me in to make herself look better.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Everyone’s sorry. Everyone’s got a sob story, too. Don’t mean anything.”

Karen smiled. “That’s true.” She watched Jessica groom the horse for a moment. For all the girl’s bluntness, she was gentle with the animal. Her mare was quite happy drinking from the bucket in the stall. The girl’s grooming was thorough.

“Does the horse have a name?”

Karen startled. She had to think about it. “It might have? I don’t recall. I just call her Horse.”

“A horse named Horse?” Jessica snorted. “That’s original.”

“I wasn’t aiming to bond with it. It’s just a horse.”

“That’s true, but I’m not calling her Horse. Pick a better name.”

Karen humored her and thought for a spell. There was no name she liked in the English language, and she wasn’t about to bring scrutiny on herself by exposing her other tongues to these people. Instead, she shook her head.

“You decide. I’m no good at naming things.”

Jessica frowned at her, but she looked at the horse more carefully. “Alice,” she finally said. “It’s not quite… but it’s close. To my mother’s name.”

“Alice.” Karen didn’t particularly care, but it meant something to Jessica. “It suits her.”

Jessica shook her head abruptly and pointed to the doorway. “Trish can get you a wash basin, and Dorothy’ll be chomping at the bit to get you settled. You’d best be off.”

Karen took it for a dismissal and nodded. She took her saddle bags and headed back into the inn. Dorothy was frowning slightly as she refilled the glass of one of the men in the taproom.

“There you are! I was thinking you’d run off on me.”

“No, ma’am. I was just speaking with your daughter. She’s good with horses.”

“Bout all she’s good for,” Dorothy muttered almost too quiet for her to hear. “My Patsy will show you where you’ll be staying. Patsy, dear! Our guest is ready.”

A blonde girl, also the same age as Karen, came out of the kitchen. Her apron was dusted with flour, but even from here, Karen could see that the fabric of her dress was much finer than Jessica’s. She was pretty, but Dorothy positively beamed at the sight of her.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

Karen hesitantly nodded. Patricia - was it Patsy or Trish? - had two spots of color rising high on her cheeks. She curtly gestured for Karen to follow her.

“That’s enough, Mother. Come this way, Miss. I’ll show you to your room.”

Karen followed her up the stairs. The girl led her to a room at the end of the hall.

“There’s wash water in the pitcher by the basin. The outhouse is out back. Dinner’s fixing to be at 5 o’clock. Anything else you need?”

The girl was curt, but not cruel. Karen hesitantly asked, “Um, yes ma’am. Might I ask if there’s any work here in town?”

Patricia laughed sharply. “Work? You might have come to the wrong place, stranger. We’re just a stop for the vaqueros and the ranchers and some stagecoaches here. The ranches might take you on, if you’ve a strong back. There’s always working on your back over at the Chaste if you’ve the stomach for it. Other than that, there ain’t much here. Potter might take you in if you’re any good with a needle, but he and his wife do just fine on their own. You could try Nelson’s. He’s the grocer. He’ll know more.”

Karen nodded. “Thank you, miss. I’ll do just that.”

Patricia left her, then. Karen went in and washed the worst of the dust out of her hair and off her face. She changed into a clean, but wrinkled dress from her saddle bag. She looked a fright in the small looking glass hanging by the basin, but she didn’t have much time to waste. She had to catch the grocer before he closed up shop.

Nelson’s Grocery and Butchery was just across the way from the inn. It was modestly busy, with women from the town coming in and out. Karen slipped in to the smell of dust and spices.

Nelson was an amiable-looking man with a kind face. He wasn’t very old, nor was he the most classically handsome, but his kind smile put her at ease immediately.

“Welcome,” he said. “To my humble establishment. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Now, Mrs. Perkins, how many pounds of flour did you say?”

Karen waited patiently. The store was neatly organized, though somewhat dusty. Her eyes followed the small barrels of colorful hard candies across the counter, to the sacks of flour and cornmeal and salt. He had smoke-cured hams and meats and sausages strung artfully in the window display. It was homey.

Mrs. Perkins finished up with one last shrewd glance at Karen. Nelson turned to Karen.

“Hello, stranger. Just passing through?”

She shook her head. “I think not. I’m looking to settle down for a bit. Miss Walker at the inn said you might be the man to ask about finding work here in town.”

Nelson stroked his chin. “Work, huh? That’s a tough one. We’ve had more settlers coming round here, lately, but none too many. We’re too far from the railroad, you know? You any good with animals? My folks may take you on as a ranch hand. Not that we take a lot of women ranch hands, but work is work, if you ask me. Don’t need male parts to do good work.”

She gave him an incredulous look, and he blushed. “Pardon me, ma’am. My ma would tan my hide if she knew I was talking so crass with a woman I’ve just met.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Nelson.”

“Please, call me Foggy. No one calls me Mr. Nelson.”

“Foggy, then.” She folded her arms over herself. “There’s no one in town looking for help? I can do some needlework. I can mind children. I can read and do figures.”

Foggy shook his head. “Afraid not. Not that I know of.” He seemed to be struggling with something. He eventually breathed out a soft ‘ah, hell.’ He shot her a smile. “Well, I may be lying a bit. See, I could use some help minding the shop. It’s hard to do the butchery and mind the storefront at the same time. My ma disapproved of the last hire-on I tried, but she may just have to swallow this one. You say you can do figures?”

Hope was dawning on her. “Yes, sir. I can.”

“Excellent. Well, consider yourself hired, Miss… uh, I don’t actually know your name.”

“Oh! Yes, it’s Karen. Karen Page.” 

Foggy took her hand with a smile. “Ms. Page. You are now an official employee of Nelson’s Grocery and Butchery. Welcome to Prosperity.”

She returned his handshake with a smile. Prosperity might not be such a bad place to stop.


	2. Karen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters are mainly exposition, so I'm lumping them together.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Foggy said from where he was arranging a crate of jarred preserves. “But the only church you’ll get around here is the Catholics.”

Karen looked up. It was her second day at the store, and she was elbow deep in the accounts books. Foggy’s record-keeping was abysmal. He had lots of mysteriously-missing funds, too, that she was almost certain were going off the record to some of the frailer citizens of Prosperity. Foggy wouldn’t tell her.

“I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m not much for church, anyway.”

Foggy laughed even as he wheezed around the heavy crates. “Neither am I, really, but it keeps my ma off my back. She’s in town every Sunday, like clockwork, to hear Father Lantom preach.”

She digested this. “So, are you saying I should go?”

“It’s up to you. It would make a better impression on my ma, but in the long run, you’ve got to follow your own gut. It’s a free country.”

Her smile twisted at that. Ha. “I’ll go with you. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, good. You can meet my friend, too. He works at the church.”

“What kind of work is there to do at the church?”

Foggy shrugged. “Boring stuff, it seems. He makes the bread for the Mass, washes the linens. I think Father lets him polish the candle sticks, too, once he found out he could do it.”

“Why wouldn’t he do that? Is he simple?”

Foggy's good cheer abruptly chilled. He spoke shortly, “No, he’s not simple. He’s blind.”

Karen wilted. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed lowly and shook his head. “No, my fault. I’m sorry. It’s just that a lot of folks treat him like he’s simple just because he can’t see, but he’s very smart. He was educated in New York. Some school for the blind. He’s from there, you know? Don’t know why he ended up here.”

“Same reason as me, I reckon,” she said. “It’s about the last stop before it really turns to desert.”

“Not that there’s much here to speak of,” he complained. He looked out the window into the street for a bit. “Say, it’s almost closing, right? Let’s close up early. I can give you the tour of the town.”

“I thought you said there was nothing here.’

Foggy waved his hand. “Details. So, are you coming?”

She threw the ledger book down with a sigh. “Well, I’m not getting anywhere with these accounts. Who taught you to figure? It’s terrible.”

“I can do figures,” he said archingly. “I just don’t care.”

“I see that.” She put on her hat and followed him outside and waited while he locked the door. It was close to closing. Most folks were heading home for supper.

Foggy rubbed his hands together. “Where to first, I wonder… You’re already familiar with the Providence and the lovely Walker sisters. Everyone knows the Chaste Woman. Have you met Elektra yet?” Karen shook her head. “Probably best. She’s terrifying. She looks at everyone like she wants to eat them. She does bring in good money for the town, though Father Lantom hates to admit it. He protests her having such an indiscreet practice in this town.”

They walked a ways down. “So, there’s the apothecary. Ms. Tilda Dillard runs it. If you need any medicines or such, she’s the one to see. Next door is the barbershop. The man who owns it is just called Pop. He’s a freedman - made his fresh start out West. He’s an artist with a razor, and he’ll pull a tooth as good as any. Everyone knows Ms. Temple runs all the medical side of it, though.”

“A woman doctor?”

Foggy shrugged. “There’s no other option around here. The old doc kicked the bucket last spring, and Pop can only do so much. Ms. Temple was a nurse with the US Army. Any folks that would care that she’s a woman or that she’s from one of the Islands can just not get healing. She’s delivered every baby in this town since she got here, and saved a lot of people from sickness, to boot.”

Karen nodded along. This was a strange town, so far. Most places she’d been to had been more rigid about mimicking the social status of the cities back East. Prosperity, it seems, had to make its own way.

“What else... There’s Melvin Potter and his wife, Betsy. They’re tailors, and Mr. Potter does all the tack and saddlery for the area. He’s very talented. If you need clothes made or new tack for your horse, they are the ones to go to. Lucas is another freedman. He’s the farrier, though he does blacksmithing, too. Tools and wagon parts and such. Quiet man. Um… The jail’s that way. It’s usually empty. Another thing for folks to be mad about, but our sheriff and his deputies are all colored folks. Samuel Wilson’s the Sheriff, Mahoney and Knight are the deputies. Knight’s a woman, too.”

Foggy gave her a grin. “It’s a strange town. We like it, though. Any folks who don’t are welcome to keep on going through. How do you feel about it?”

Karen found herself smiling. A town like this, so varied and different than so many of the others she’d stopped in. Maybe a town like this would have room for a misfit like her, too.

“It’s wonderful, Foggy.”

His grin widened. “Come on, I want you to meet Matthew. He’s the blind one I told you about.”

She followed him towards the church. Her stomach sank a little. Churches were still rather scary, even after all this time. She steeled herself and followed Foggy past the church to the little rectory beside it. An old man in a clerical collar was sweeping the porch.

He smiled at them as they approached. “Mr. Nelson. Good afternoon. I see you’ve brought someone with you.”

Foggy gestured grandly at Karen. “Father Lantom! Yes, this is my new employee, the lovely Ms. Karen Page. She’s helping me with my bookkeeping.”

The priest laughed. “You could certainly use the help. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Page. I hope to see you on Sunday.”

Karen politely took his hand. It was impossible to be afraid of this man. He had a very honest face, and his hands were calloused from hard work.

“Is Matthew around?” Foggy shifted impatiently. “I want Ms. Page to meet him.”

“Yes, yes, he’s around the back.”

They exchanged polite goodbyes and went behind the church. The church was a bit apart from the main street of the town. And Karen could see why now. There was a small pen and coop filled with pecking chickens, and beyond that, the town cemetery.

A young man in slightly rumpled clothes was kneeling by some grave markers. He had a pair of sheers, and was carefully running his hands along the grass and then trimming any overlong bits with the sheers. He perked up as their boots scuffed on the dirt.

“Foggy? Is that you?”

“It’s me, partner.” Foggy strode forward and hugged the man as he stood up and dusted his knees off. “Come meet Ms. Page. She’s my new employee.”

Matthew laughed. “I already know, Foggy. I’ve had no fewer than three gossipy old women come to ask me if I knew about the new woman in town. I had to tell them no. Hello, Ms. Page. I hear you are new, beautiful, and that you have freckles.”

That startled a laugh out of her. She took his offered hand. His eyes were uncovered, and they were beautiful despite appearing to be completely unseeing. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr…”

“Murdock. Matthew Murdock.”

His accent was strange. New York hovered overtop, but there was an Irish lilt underneath. She liked the sound of it.

Foggy was grinning again. “Perfect. Now my best friends are friends. Who wants to go celebrate?”

“Celebrate?”

“Sure. So, do we want to go to Ms. Walker’s and be spied on and gossiped about the whole time, or do we risk Elektra’s den of iniquity?”

Matthew made a face. “Neither is a very pleasant option, Foggy.”

“This is true. Elektra always looks like she especially wants to eat you, Matthew, and I’m not sure about exposing Ms. Page to such crude, lecherous behaviour.”

Karen smirked. “Now wait a moment, fellas. Why do you both assume that my virtue is so fragile? For all you know, I’m a former vaudeville dancer on the run from my rich, but unwholesome fiance.”

“Oh. Well, are you, Ms. Page?” Matthew asked.

Her smirk dropped a bit. “Not necessarily, but I’ll have you know that I am no genteel lady.”

Matthew nodded. “I see. I had wondered about your accent. You’ve got a western twang, but it sounds like someone tried to educate it out of you.”

At her stupefied silence, Foggy dropped back in. “Ignore him, Ms. Page. He makes up for being blinder than a bat by having inconveniently perceptive ears. Now, come, let us find some liquor.”

They decided to go to The Chaste Woman, as Karen had never been there. It was quite different than anything she’d seen before. There were women, modestly clothed, but provocatively displayed, around the room. A man played the harpsichord in the corner, and there was a well-stocked bar manned by a weasely-looking man with spectacles.

“Weasel!” Foggy said, overly cheerful. “How have you been, cousin?”

The spectacled man gave him a flat look. He seemed to answer to Weasel. “Foggy. You’re not here to try for free drinks again, I hope.”

“Why of course not,” Foggy said with the tone of a man who was definitely lying. “That would be ungracious of me, seeing as I don’t give you a family discount at my shop.”

Karen leaned closer to Matthew. “Are they actually related?”

Matthew nodded. He was smiling. “Cousins. Weasel came here from the Nelsons in Wisconsin. His real name’s Wesley Nelson, but everyone calls him Weasel. He may or may not be on the run from the Army.”

Karen nodded along. Weasel and Foggy’s bickering had ended with Weasel producing a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. Foggy brought them back and grabbed them a table.

“You can always count on Weasel. This is good whiskey.”

“He didn’t piss in it again?” Matthew asked. He turned to Karen. “Ah, excuse me.”

Karen ignored him. “Did he really piss in the whiskey?”

Foggy and Matt shared a grin at her language. Foggy turned to her eagerly. “It was just one time. See, there was this cute settler passing through, and Weasel took a fancy to her…”

Foggy’s stories were wildly entertaining. Some of the working girls ended up coming over and adding their own commentary. The one who introduced herself as Vanessa was especially witty and quick, with mirthful dark eyes. Karen hadn’t laughed so much in ages. Something changed abruptly, though. The stories all ground to a halt at the sound of clacking heels on the staircase.

Karen looked up to see a striking woman slinking down the stairs. She was beautiful, for all that her features were somewhat harsh. Her small, dark eyes darted around the room and took everything in. Her rouged lips parted in a dangerous smile. Though she was fully clothed, she had a sensuality around her that made Karen shift uncomfortably in her seat. The hawk of a woman immediately zeroed in on the movement.

“Why so quiet?” she purred in accented English. “I like a cheerful house. Do continue.”

The girls all glanced at each other and moved away to find other patrons to entertain. The noise of the room gradually increased back to almost as raucous as it had been before. The predator woman turned back to the trio.

“Hello, lovelies. I see you have a new face for me.” Her grin was like a cat looking at a mouse. “Hello, little starling. My name is Elektra. I must say, you are quite beautiful.”

“Her name is Karen Page,” Foggy said quickly. “And she’s already quite employed.”

Elektra ignored him. “If you ever need work, dear little starling, I have room for you. And Matthew, darling, how good it is to see you.”

Matthew’s face was an unamused frown. “You can cut the act, Elektra. Nobody is amused.”

Elektra’s grin only widened. “Oh do stop being such a bore, Matthew. It doesn’t suit you.”

Karen glanced between the two. Foggy was looking harassed. The frown lines on Matthew’s face were deepening. 

Elektra’s laugh was like broken glass shattering. “Oh do relax. I’ll be on my way. Enjoy yourselves, darlings.” With that, she slithered off to bother Weasel.

“Is she always this… intense?” Karen asked.

“Always,” Foggy said with a sigh. “She likes to get inside folks’ heads.”

“Don’t trust her,” Matthew said. “She’s more than she seems.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Do you know her well?”

Matthew’s sudden smile was disarming. “No, of course not, Ms. Page. Now, Foggy was in the middle of telling the story about the bear and Wade Wilson.”

Foggy’s eyes lit up. Karen shifted back in her seat as he launched back into the telling. Her eyes darted between Matthew and the woman at the bar. There was something strange happening in Prosperity, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what it was.


	3. Matthew

The first wagon train didn’t raise any alarms.

Wagon trains were fairly common. Their little town was a good watering hole on the way westward. They caught a lot of flow of cattle trains heading for the railroad and the slaughterhouses, but most of the town revenue came from settlers needing to stock up on the way. 

A wagon train full of folks from the Orient was a little uncommon, but nobody asked too many questions. They were heading from the east, so many folks figured they’d tried their luck there and decided to strike out for lands back west. It wasn’t an uncommon story for folks of any color. The Army was a little less in control the further into the territories one went. The train’s money was good, though, so they serviced them and went about their business.

Then more showed up.

Matthew followed the whispers of the townsfolk and the creak of wagon wheels to the main strip. Without Foggy to guide him, he was forced to tap his cane along the packed dirt until he reached the boardwalk and a strong hand lifted him up the step.

“Matthew.” It was Ms. Temple. She smelled like ointments and blood, as usual. She also sounded worried. “You should be careful. There’s strangers in town. A lot of them.”

“Ms. Temple,” he said cordially. “I can’t see. Can you tell me what’s happening? Is it another wagon train?”

“Yes,” she said. He felt her nod. “It’s different, though. They’re foreigners, just like the ones a few weeks ago. They’ve sent someone to talk to the sheriff. I can see him from here. He’s talking to a small old woman. She’s got a cane. She hobbles when she walks.”

Matthew nodded and focused. He pushed away other sounds one by one until the words between Sheriff Wilson and the old woman came through clearly.

“-the land about five miles east of here belongs to the Nelsons. And if you go to the west, it starts getting to desert scrubland. There’s a watering hole there, but it’s not the best place to camp. You’d probably be best off asking one of the local ranchers if you could use some of their land, depending on how long you’re staying. And how long _are_ you planning to stay, Madame Gao?”

The woman, Madame Gao, answered back in perfect English, “I am not sure how long our business will keep us here, Sheriff. I will take my wagons to the west. The desert is no trouble to us.”

Wilson sounded uncertain. “If you’re sure, Madame. If you have need of anything, please, don’t hesitate to call on me.”

The woman bowed. “Your hospitality does you great service, Sheriff Wilson. I will most certainly be in touch with you.”

That seemed to be that. The woman hobbled back to the wagons, and the train rolled out of town, heading towards the desert. The Sheriff turned to the townsfolk and sighed. 

“They’re just staying outside of town for a time. No need to be alarmed, folks. Go back to your business.”

The crowd started dispersing. Ms. Temple offered Matthew her arm.

“Take a walk with me?”

He took her arm with a slight bow and fell into step with her. He liked Ms. Temple, for all that her business smelled. She had a calming presence and a steady heartbeat.

“I don’t like this, Matthew,” she said. “These wagon trains coming in, I get a bad feeling about them.”

“Do you think they’re after something nefarious?” He swept his free arm out to indicate the town. “There’s not much here. No mines, no quarries, not a railroad line either. Unless they’re cattle rustlers and horse thieves, they’ve picked a bad town to terrorize.”

“I know that,” she said with a sigh. “I’m just saying that I have a bad feeling about it. And no, it’s not because of where they’re from. It’s just… a feeling I’m getting from them. Like they’re exactly where they want to be, and they’re not leaving anytime soon.”

Matthew hummed. “I’m sure things will work themselves out, Ms. Temple. Trust your gut and keep an eye out, but just… bide your time. We’ll see what happens. At least, you will. I won’t see anything.”

His joke startled a laugh out of her. It was a nice sound. Her hand tightened on his arm. “You’re a funny one, Mr. Murdock. I will be careful. I’m just hoping my gut is wrong. If I’m right… then things in this town are apt to go bloody.”

Matthew shook his head. “I hope your gut is wrong as well.”

\--

Nightfall was the best time. 

Father Lantom was a heavy sleeper, thanks be to God. His snores never wavered as Matthew snuck out of the rectory. It was risky, going out like this, but often the sketchiest deals happened when the sun didn’t shine. The darkness never bothered him, in any case.

He kept a set of dark trousers and a dark shirt under his mattress for just these occasions. A dark scarf over his face completed his disguise. He wasn’t sure how the townsfolk would react to the local blind man sprinting through the scrubland with nary a stumble in the dead of night. Best to be taken for a bandit than have to explain that.

He heard the wagon train long before the other senses trickled in. The whicker of sleepy horses, the soft snores of the men and women bunked down by the wagons, the soft creak of shifting wood. There were traces of campfires burned down to embers. Some folks were awake, still, the pattern of their steps like a perimeter guard. Interesting.

There was another sound, approaching from town. A familiar heartbeat and breathing pattern, the smell of orchids, sex, and mescal.

“Elektra,” he said quietly once she got close enough to hear.

He didn’t need to see to hear the smirk in her voice. “Matthew. I like the costume. It’s quite… cavalier.”

“What are you going out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, darling. What interests you about our new visitors?”

He twisted his mouth in a grimace. “I have a bad feeling about them.”

“As you should,” Elektra purred. “You may have decided that you were done with the game, Matthew, but the game is certainly not done with you. These people are members of the Hand.”

His breath hissed in his teeth and he cursed. “Are you certain?”

“Positive. I recognized their leader. Madame Gao is one of the Fingers of the Hand. And where one Finger goes, more are sure to follow.”

“But what do they want here?” he asked. “Why Prosperity, of all places?”

Her chuckle shuddered along his spine. “Perhaps the same energy that drew you here, dear Matthew. The same energy I followed when I chased you to this God-forsaken place. There’s power here. Something the Hand obviously desires.”

He cursed again. “What should we do?”

“I say we bide our time,” she said. “I know, it irks me as well to sit by and do nothing, but I believe there is more to be gained if we wait. The more Fingers appear, the more powerful they shall be, but we may be able to take them all with one strike.”

She was right. He sighed. “How long do you think it will be until Stick shows up?”

“Oh, dear heart, I’m sure he’s already on his way.”

The coyotes started yipping in the night as they stole through the shadows back to town.


	4. Jessica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the slowest-paced fic I've ever written, and I apologize. It's taking some time to get all the players to their places on the board. It reminds me of the first couple episodes of The Defenders, where it took time to get all four of them in Midland Circle together. It's basically that. 
> 
> Players are appearing, though. Slowly but surely.

There was something definitely wrong in this town.

More wagons kept coming, joining the ones camped on the edge of the desert. The streets were crawling with strangers, all of them secretive and quiet. The sheriff kept urging everyone not to panic, but she could see the worry lines etched around his eyes.

Jessica quietly slipped away from the Providence and stole along the streets of town. The very air seemed subdued, and not just because high noon was approaching, with the scorching sun that beat down on the town and forced most good folks indoors.

The scorching heat meant nothing to the local farrier on the edge of town. The heat of his forge made the workshop shimmer in the sun. She could hear his hammer ringing out and the bellows pumping. Assistants scampered to and fro, carrying loads of horseshoes and scraps. Jessica ignored them all and strode right into the sweltering workshop.

The hammering didn’t pause. Jessica’s mouth felt dry as she watched broad, dark shoulders bulging and flexing as his hammer swung once, twice, three times. He noticed her as he doused his metal in a nearby bucket. His eyebrows shot up.

“Oh. Pardon me, Miss.” For all that he was hugely tall and wide as a wagon, his voice was soft.

She dragged her eyes back up from his naked torso with some difficulty. A small smile was playing around his lips. She scowled at him.

“Mr. Lucas. I need to speak with you.”

“As you wish,” he said. He dropped his tools on a bench and rummaged around, coming up with a slightly sooty shirt. She wondered how he wasn’t covered in burns, undressed as he was. He gestured for her to step out of the workshop. She was glad. Her dress was already sticking to her with sweat.

“Just Lucas is fine, by the way. What did you need? Have a horse that needs shoes?”

Jessica shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to get your read on the goings on in town of late.”

Lucas’s expression shuttered. “I’m not interested in any of the business going on in town.”

That wasn’t unexpected. The farrier by far was one of the least-seen figures in town. Jessica was used to knowing most of the goings-on from her nice perch on the balcony of the Providence. Most folks came through the inn at some point, whether for food or gossip or a place to stay. She knew the business of near-everyone in Prosperity due to her natural nosiness. Lucas never came to the inn, though. For the most part, he didn’t venture out from his shop or the attached house. She occasionally spied his broad figure hanging around the barber shop and stocking up at the grocer, but he never drank at the inn or at the Chaste. He was an honest-to-God mystery. Mysteries made her nose itch.

“So you’ll admit that it’s suspect?” She raised an eyebrow at him and put her hand on her hip.

“I’ll admit to nothing. It’s none of my business.” He seemed uncomfortable, suddenly. He cast a wary glance around the deserted streets, at his assistants working around the yard. “Miss Walker, I would appreciate you not coming here on your own. There’s folks that would take it poorly to see a nice white girl like you coming to see a man like me alone.”

“In Prosperity?” Jessica scoffed. “Nobody cares about things like that here.”

“Your mother cares.” His expression was stern. “Get enough folks caring, bad things happen. Especially to men like me. I don’t want to risk it.”

“Fair enough, but I think you worry too much,” she said. “I just wanted your read on all these strangers. You see more than you admit. I can tell.”

“As do you,” he said, sounding begrudgingly impressed. 

She was about to reply when something in the horizon caught her eye. “Wait, do you see that?” Jessica pointed down the road coming from the east. “Is that a stagecoach?”

Lucas rubbed his shaved head. “What’s a stagecoach doing out this way?”

They stepped back into the shadow of the workshop and watched the coach approaching at a steady trot. It took several minutes, but eventually the stagecoach drew level with the workshop. The driver yanked the horses to a halt. As soon as the coach stopped moving, the door opened from the inside.

Out stepped the most fashionable young man either of them had ever seen.

He wore the clothes casually. They weren’t finely decorated, rather plain, but the quality of the craftsmanship and materials was easy to see even from a distance. A glinting pocket watch shone in his waistcoat, and he wore a kerchief of fine yellow silk around his neck. He had an air of a man who never had to worry about anything. His eyes lit up when he caught sight of them.

“Gentleman, lady, good afternoon.” His grin was wide and friendly. “Can you tell me the name of this town?”

Lucas and Jessica exchanged a glance. It was Jessica who stepped forward. 

“This is Prosperity, stranger. Can I ask your name and your business here? We don’t usually get folks as fine as you.”

The young man looked down at his clothes. He looked startled. A hand came up to scrub through his cropped curls. “Oh. My apologies. My name is Daniel Rand. My fiancee and I have business here.”

“What kind of business?” Lucas asked.

Mr. Rand’s expression closed off abruptly, though he kept a casual smile on his face. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. I am happy to see that we’ve come to the right place. Colleen - I mean, Ms. Wing - we’ve arrived.”

He said the last to the coach. There was a shuffling sound, and then a girl let herself out of the shadowy interior. Jessica was surprised to see that it was a young woman with Asiatic features dressed in fine, simple clothes. She clutched a bulky parasol with a strange handle to her chest. Her eyes darted between Jessica and Lucas.

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Rand,” the girl said.

Mr. Rand gestured at her. “This is my fiancee, Colleen Wing.”

“A pleasure,” Jessica said. “My name is Jessica Jo - Jessica Walker. My step-mother owns the inn. If you’d like, you can have your coach take you just down the way. You can’t miss it.”

“We’re good walking, thank you,” Ms. Wing said.

Mr. Rand beamed and started pulling suitcases down from the roof of the carriage. Lucas followed him to assist him. Jessica and Ms. Wing were left eyeing each other uneasily. In a few moments, Mr. Rand had all their luggage in hand. It wasn’t much.

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Lucas,” Mr. Rand was saying. “It’s not so much that I can’t carry it. Thank you for your help. Ms. Walker, would you please show the way?”

Jessica nodded and turned to Lucas. “Thank you for your time, Lucas.”

Lucas gave her a loaded glance and nodded dismissively at them all. He practically fled into his workshop. Jessica awkwardly gestured for the two fine people to follow her.

“So, where are you from?” she asked.

Mr. Rand and Ms. Wing shared a glance. Jessica saw it from the corner of her eye. They seemed to communicate a lot with just the look.

“We’ve just come from New York City,” Ms. Wing said.

“I was abroad for quite some time before that,” Mr. Rand added. “New York was interesting, but I’ve had an exciting time traveling the States and the western territories. It’s quite a beautiful country.”

“It can be,” Jessica hazarded. The townsfolk were giving them lingering looks. The foreigners didn’t seem to notice. “Prosperity’s not the prettiest spot on the map to end up.”

“It’s where we must be,” Mr. Rand said, with a queer look on his face.

Jessica decided to leave it alone. She glanced about and saw Elektra peering through the window of her bar with a cat-like smirk curled around her fancy cigarette holder. On the other side of the street, she saw Ms. Page had paused her sweeping of the front stoop of Nelson’s to stare. She gave both of the women a scowl and hastened to the front door of Providence. 

“This is it. The best inn in town. The only inn in town, honestly. My step-mother will be happy to get you settled in.”

Mr. Rand gave her a dazzling smile. “Thank you Ms. Walker. You’ve been very helpful.”

Jessica watched them walk inside with a frown. More mysteries and strangers to add to the pot. Prosperity seemed to be in the center of something. Something she hadn’t figured out yet. She didn’t care for it one bit.


	5. Danny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot happens.
> 
> Also, every time I type the phrase "mystery man" I picture the Overwatch character McCree's Mystery Man skin. I promise Matt doesn't actually dress like the Hamburgler in this fic.

“What could the Hand possibly want here?” Colleen complained.

Danny scrubbed his hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. They’d been in town for three days now, and they hadn’t made any headway into sneaking up on the Hand encampment in that time. They kept a good perimeter, with archers posted every twenty feet. Nobody would get into that camp without at least causing a big ruckus. The area this town was in was so incredibly flat that there was no way of sneaking up, even in the dead of night.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But you feel it, don’t you? That energy?”

She nodded. “I do. There’s something here, or near here, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Whatever it is, the Hand wants it. If the Hand wants it, then it’s in our best interests to make sure they don’t get it.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “I just don’t know how we’re supposed to get close enough to find out what’s going on. This place is too flat. There’s no cover.”

“We’ll go out again tonight,” he said. He took her hands in his. “We’ll find a way. I promise.”

Colleen sighed and accepted his kiss on her cheek. “I’m sorry, Danny. I’m just fretting.”

“It’s fine. You just have to have faith. We will find a way.”

She nodded and went back to practicing her sword forms. Danny smiled watching her, but he felt worried. What if they were too late?

After night fell, they snuck out of the inn. It wasn’t difficult. Dorothy Walker was a deep sleeper, and most people didn’t look up to see people crawling out of windows. The pair stole through the shadows to the edge of town and headed out into the scrubland.

The scrubs were just high enough and spaced enough to provide some cover on their approach. The perimeter guards were disciplined, though. They were forced to halt some distance away. Too far to overhear anything, and much too far to see anything.

There was a slight scuffing sound behind them, and a voice whispered harshly, “Don’t scream.”

Danny and Colleen froze. Danny’s eyes darted around as he weighed his options. If he fought now, the ruckus would alert the guards. If he focused his chi, his Fist would be a beacon in the dark. He nodded to Colleen, and they turned slowly.

The figure that had snuck up on them was hard to see in the night. His dark clothing and bandana blended into the shadows of the night. All they could see clearly was a pale chin and ruddy lips.

The mysterious man held up a finger for silence and gestured for them to follow him back several feet into the scrubs.

“Who are you?” Danny whispered once they were even more shrouded from the archers’ sight.

The man shook his head. “That’s not important.” His voice was a husky rasp. “What are you two doing out here?”

Colleen cut in fiercely. “Answer his question. Are you with the Hand?”

The man cocked his head. “You ask me if I work for the Hand when I am clearly spying on them?”

Colleen’s face colored. Danny put a hand on her arm. “If you’re not with the Hand, then what are you doing out here?”

The red lips frowned. “I’ve been trying to understand what the Hand is doing here for some time now. I haven’t had much luck. They don’t, ah, prioritize speaking English.”

Danny and Colleen shared a look. 

“If you tell us how you’re getting close enough to overhear, we can translate for you,” Danny said. “We speak Chinese, and my lady companion speaks Nipponese.”

The man’s frown deepened. “That’s, um, a small issue. I haven’t been able to get closer.”

“Then how are you overhearing anything?” Colleen asked, clearly exasperated.

“I have good hearing,” he said flatly.

Danny groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Okay, so… have you tried approaching from the far end?”

The man nodded. “They guard it even tighter on that side. I believe that’s where they are doing their work.”

“And can you hear what they’re doing?” Colleen asked archly.

The man’s head tilted again. “Digging. They’ve been dragging cartloads of dirt away. The hole they are digging is...massive.”

Danny shared a look with Colleen again. “What would the Hand be digging for?”

“Nothing good,” she said. “We need to get closer. There has to be something we can use.”

The mystery man tilted his head again. He was reminding Danny of a bird. “I believe… if we’re careful, there is a small weakness in the perimeter. The guard there is distracted. If we all strike at once, we may be able to break into the camp. I trust that sword you’re carrying isn’t decorative, ma’am?”

Her grip tightened on the hilt of the blade. “It’s not.”

“Good.” The man’s grin was chilling. “Let’s go then, shall we?”

They followed the man through the brush. Danny felt odd, trusting this man so easily without even knowing who he was, but the man was so decisive that it was hard to resist him. His logic held, too. If the Hand wanted to capture them, they wouldn’t use such an elaborate scheme, and why would a Hand member be spying on them? With little choice, he followed him.

The man’s intuition was correct. The archer at this section was yawning and fidgeting. The guards on either side looked bored. Danny nodded at their mystery guide. 

He held up his finger again and leaned in to whisper, “Pick one. As silently as possible.”

The mystery man paced off into the shadows to the furthest man, winding a strip of cloth over his knuckles as he went. Danny’s own fists clenched in his wraps. Colleen gave him a vicious smile and started for the sleepy guard in the middle. That settled, Danny went for his own guard.

He didn’t have time to wonder about the others. His guard was sighing and looking to the sky. Danny took his opportunity to burst out of the brush, leading with a leaping kick. Agents of the Hand were fast and deadly, but he had the element of surprise on his side. A few well-placed strikes, and his guard was dropping to the dirt. Danny hefted him up and dragged him away to the brush. When he looked up, Colleen and the man were doing the same.

The man held up a finger for silence again, but he was smiling. The trio edged further into camp.

The majority of the camp was asleep, but from here even Danny could hear the sounds of shoveling and soft grunts of exertion. Crude torches lit up the digsite on the far side of camp. The mystery man was correct - the hole was massive, and only getting deeper and wider. Mystery man tilted his head again and gestured for them to follow him to a large covered wagon closer to the center of camp. It was risky, but if this was their chance to overhear something…

They crept closer. The muffled voices from the wagon became clearer.

_”We are working day and night, but this will take time,”_ said a quavering old voice in Mandarin. _”I cannot force them to dig any faster, unless you are offering to provide more servants? If that is not the case, then we must proceed at a slower pace, lest we work these people to death.”_

A man’s voice replied, softer, in slower Mandarin. _”I can provide more workers if that is what you need, but remember, Gao, that Alexandra is on her way, and she will want results.”_

Colleen’s face was pale, and she shook her head at Danny. He’d have to ask her about that later.

_”That grasping woman will get her results. In the meantime, we must be careful. The people of the town are already on edge. Let us not give them any reason to escalate their uneasiness into conflict. The town may prove expendable, but its resources are useful at this time.”_

_”I will provide more laborers as discreetly as I can. This operation is too vital to jeopardize with carelessness.”_

The man in the mask was suddenly grasping Danny’’s arm. He jerked his head away, towards the perimeter, frantically. Danny scrambled to catch up to him and Colleen as quietly as he could.

“What is it?” he asked.

“They’ve found the guards,” the man said. His lips pressed together until they turned as pale as his chin. “They’re about to sound an alarm. We have to leave.”

“How? They have bows,” Colleen said.

Danny gritted his teeth. “We’ll try to leave stealthily, but if they see us…”

“Try not to get shot,” the masked man said.

Colleen swallowed audibly, but her grip on her sword tightened. As quietly and discreetly as they could, they weaved between the wagons and tents of the camp towards the perimeter. The masked man’s head cocked back and forth, and Danny could hear shouts being raised.

“It’s time to run,” mystery man said, his voice tight. “Weave side to side as you do. Head for town.”

With no more warning than that, he began sprinting, springboarding off of an armed man who was just turning the corner around the edge of the wagon they’d stopped against. Danny and Colleen followed.

The next few minutes were a blur. Danny punched and kicked and kept his eyes focused for Colleen as she punched out and struck her own opponents. The masked man was a dark blur of movement in his peripheral. All three of them kept running. They broke the edge of camp and sprinted full force into the brushland. Danny barely remembered to weave side to side as they went, checking to see that Colleen was right on his heels, her mouth a grim line as she wove back and forth. He heard the twang of bowstrings and arrows whistling in the air and a soft grunt, but they kept running.

“They’re not following us,” Colleen gasped out after a time.

Danny slowed his run to a walk, and then a stop. His lungs were on fire, and his legs were burning and aching. He glanced around. Colleen’s hands were on her knees as she caught her breath. The mystery man was doubled over as well, his breathing harsh. The dim light of the moon outlined a long, thin shape protruding from his body.

“Have you been shot?” Danny asked dumbly.

The man didn’t answer, just waved a dismissive hand at him. Danny could see more clearly that yes, he definitely had the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back. He could see the point of it peeking out underneath his collar bone. He felt sick.

“I’ll be fine,” the man said. It didn’t sound convincing. “The mind controls the body. We have to get back to town.”

“You need a doctor,” Danny said.

“Who is at town,” the man replied. He sounded frustrated. “Unless you’ve hidden a carriage in your pocket, we need to get walking. They aren’t following us. I assume they’re more interested in protecting their camp than engaging, but we shouldn’t take risks. We have to go.”

Danny nodded, and the trio started walking briskly back to town. The mystery man’s breath hissed whenever he stumbled, but he refused any assistance.

“Did you learn anything useful, at least?” 

Colleen and Danny shared a glance.

“The hole they’re digging is definitely priority,” Colleen said. “They were talking about bringing in more laborers so they can dig faster.”

“They mentioned someone named Alexandra,” Danny also said. “She sounded like the leader.”

“No mention of what they were digging for?” At the pair’s silent shake of heads, the man cursed. “We’ve barely learned anything.”

They didn’t say anything else as they marched the last couple of miles to town. The yipping coyotes provided their background noise. At the edge of town, Danny hesitated.

“Do you need help getting to someone who could see to that arrow?”

The man waved his hand at him again. “I’ll be alright. Just go. And don’t take any unnecessary risks. We can’t have them retaliating on the townsfolk - or their families at the ranches. Be discreet.”

“Says the man in a mask,” Colleen sniped.

The man just smiled and walked off to melt into the shadows of the buildings. Danny shook his head and walked with Colleen towards the inn.

“What was that, back there? By the wagon?”

Colleen’s jaw clenched. “I recognized one of those voices, in the wagon.”

“Someone from the Hand you know?”

“Not just someone.” Her eyes bored into his. “It was Bakuto.”

Danny’s heart raced. “Bakuto is here? But I thought he was -”

“Well now he’s here.” She grasped her hand in his tightly. “If both Bakuto and Madame Gao are here, then I have a very bad feeling about what’s going on.”

Danny didn’t say anything, but he nodded. He had a growing feeling of doom in his gut.


	6. Matthew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, this story is the hardest WIP I have done in a long time. I wonder why I write it some days, and others, the words just fly from my fingers to the word processor. 
> 
> Another note: I'm taking chemicals out of the equation for what gives people powers in this AU. In this circumstance, it's like a mutant gene that gets activated by stress. Like Deadpool, but also without chemicals. Old West and radioactive materials just don't mesh.

As soon as the two newcomers were out of sight, he collapsed against the side of a building.

Getting shot hurt.

He dragged his composure together and checked his bearings. He was leaned against the apothecary. Claire Temple’s small house was just northeast of here. He could make it that far. He’d walked for miles already. He bared his teeth in a snarl of a grin. Just a little further.

His boots dragged like leaden weights across the packed earth. His ears were still hyper-aware from the fight. He could hear snores from the houses. One child was having a bad dream. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were working on making baby number three. He shook his head and reigned his hearing back in. Just a little further.

He stumbled up the front step and knocked weakly. He could hear a creak as Ms.Temple shot up out of bed and dragged a drawer open to grab something heavy. He leaned back against the doorpost. She came up to the door slowly and cracked it open. He heard her cock a pistol behind the door.

“Who is it? What’s -” She gasped when she saw him. He wasn’t sure if it was the mask, or the arrow stuck dramatically through his body. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Get inside.”

He stumbled past her and finally gave up, collapsing onto the wooden slat floor on his bottom. She shut the door and moved to pull the curtains closed tighter. She didn’t set her pistol down.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And how did you get shot?”

Matthew chewed on his options for a moment before he sighed. It would go smoother if he was honest. He dragged the fabric off of his head. “Claire, it’s me.”

It must have been dim in the room, but she still gasped in recognition. “Matthew?” She hurriedly returned her pistol to the drawer and grabbed some matches to light a lamp. “How are you - Who -”

“I was spying on the foreigners,” he said. “One of them shot me.”

“Spying? But you’re blind.”

Even as she spoke, she was gathering her bandages and medicines. He was content to sit still as she assembled her kit. She joined him on the floor and started probing the wound.

“I can still hear,” he said. 

“And wander into the scrubland in the middle of the night,” she said. She lifted the lantern and waved it in his face. He supposed his eyes didn’t react, because she set the lantern down and said in a quiet, awed voice, “You really are blind.”

“That I am,” he said easily. The room was starting to spin in his senses.

“That’s not important right now,” she said decisively. “For now, let’s get that arrow out of you. I have chloroform.”

“No - No chloroform.”

“This is going to hurt, Matthew.” She stared at him a moment before she sighed and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. “Drink this, then. And don’t scream. I don’t want to explain what I’m doing pulling an arrow out of the local blind man in the dead of night.”

He dutifully took several swallows of whiskey while she cut his shirt away and studied the wound.

“There is a good thing about this,” she said. “The head of the arrow is already partially emerged from your body. It will make pulling the shaft though easier. Here, bite this.”

He bit the strip of braided leather between his teeth and groaned as she snapped the fletching off the shaft.

“Alright. I am pulling it through now. Try to keep quiet.”

He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. He came to awareness again after a few moments. His jaw ached from clenching the gag in his teeth, and his breath was whistling through his mouth. The arrow was out, though. Claire was staunching the wound with a square of fabric. He spat the gag out and groaned.

Claire’s voice was still level. “I need to check the entry point, make sure there’s no pieces of your shirt stuck in there. If this wound gets rottten, you’ll die for sure.”

“Comforting,” he choked out.

“Would you prefer I lied to you?”

He shook his head. She rolled him over and used her tools to pluck some shreds of his shirt out of the wound. She shoved the gag back in his mouth and doused the whole thing in the whiskey. He lost his grip on consciousness again. When he came to, she’d finished tying the bandages off, and she rolled him back over onto the floor again.

“Talk to me, Matthew,” she said. “What is the explanation here?”

“It may be better if you don’t know,” he said.

She inhaled low and slow. After a moment of silence, she spoke again. “Matthew, you misunderstand. There is no situation in which you leave this house without telling me how you came to have an arrow stuck through your body. You can either be honest with me, or I can tell the sheriff that you’ve been going out to hassle the encampment against his express wishes. Speak to me, Matthew.”

She had just saved his life. He weighed the options before he gave up. Claire Temple was a woman of her word. “Fine, Ms. Temple. I will tell you my story. How much do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she said without hesitation. “Starting with how a blind man can walk about unassisted and get in enough trouble that he finds himself mortally wounded.”

Matthew tried to sit up, but the overwhelming dizziness forced him back down. The floor wasn’t too uncomfortable after all. To his surprise, Claire lifted his shoulders and slid her knees under his head. He felt a hand brush over his hair gently before disappearing.

“It started in my youth,” he said slowly. “I was raised in Hell’s Kitchen, a rough neighborhood in New York City. My father was an Irish immigrant, a tough man, but a good one. He did what he had to do to keep me fed after my mum died. I was nine years old when the accident happened.

“I pushed a man out of the way of a carriage. I struck my head so hard that I was unconscious for two weeks. They thought I would die. If my father hadn’t cared for me, forced water on me, I would have. When I awoke, I could no longer see. The doctor I saw believed my brain had been injured by the impact. Damaged so badly that I lost my ability to see.”

Claire’s hand was stroking through his hair in earnest now. “That’s horrible.”

Matthew made a face. “It is simply what happened. My father did his best for me, but he passed away not too long after that. I went to the orphanage, and impressed the nuns there enough that they found a wealthy man to sponsor my schooling at the New York School for the Blind. It was during my schooling that I met a man named only Stick.”

“What kind of name is Stick?”

“This man’s name. It was Stick who recognized something in me. See, Ms. Temple, when I lost my sight, I gained other abilities. My other senses are strengthened, so much that I can use them to navigate. I can’t see with my eyes, but I ‘see’ in other ways.” He hesitated then.

Claire latched onto the hesitation. “This is fascinating, but what are you not saying? How did these events lead you to being shot through with an arrow?”

He debated censoring the truth, but perhaps Claire deserved the whole truth. “Stick is important, and not just because of what he taught me to do. There are forces in this world, Ms. Temple. Ancient forces. Dangerous. I did not believe it at first, but I have experienced things too fantastical to be explained. The man Stick is the leader of an ancient organization called the Chaste. They are in opposition to another organization, the Hand. These two groups have been at war for centuries.”

“This is a lot you expect me to believe,” Claire said slowly.

“I know. I also doubted, but the power is real. Stick taught me to be a weapon for the Chaste, to fight the Hand. And the foreigners who have camped out at the edge of the desert? They are members of the Hand.”

“You expect me to believe that there is a whole wagon train of ancient warriors camping outside of Prosperity? Of all places?”

“I don’t know why they are here, or what they want.” He shook his head in her lap. “I may have left the Chaste, but the ancient war seems to have followed me here. They shot me just for loitering near their camp. Whether you believe in the war or not, you have to believe that these people are dangerous.”

“They are at least that.” Claire sighed. “I cannot say that I believe everything you’ve told me, Matthew, but I thank you for trusting me with this. What are you going to do now?”

Regretfully, he forced himself upright. His wound screamed in pain. “I must get back to the rectory before dawn. Father Lantom mustn’t know that I was gone.”

“You shouldn’t be moving. Your wound is severe.”

He gave her a weak smile. “I will be fine. I’ve learned some… Eastern mysticism that will help me heal.” She helped him to his feet. His hands lingered on her own. “I cannot thank you enough for your help, Ms. Temple.”

“Under the circumstances,” she said dryly. “I must insist you just call me Claire.”

“In private, perhaps.” He smiled at her again and was pleased to hear her heart flutter and heat rise to her cheeks. “Thank you again, and please be careful. These strangers are not to be trusted.”

“I should be the one admonishing you,” she said. Still, she let him leave out the door, his steps still unsteady. “Goodbye, Matthew. Please be careful.”

“Goodbye, Claire.”

It wasn’t yet dawn when he slipped back into the rectory. Father Lantom barely stirred as he padded past him on socked feet and shoved his bloodied clothes under the mattress. He changed into his nightshirt and settled into his straw mattress to try to meditate the rest of the night away. He needed this wound healed as fast as possible, and he needed to speak with Elektra. Where was Stick?


	7. Frank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude.

The nag was going to die soon.

He’d done his best by her, but there was only so much one man could do. She’s carried him all the way from Virginia, and they had gone such a long way. The miles behind them stretched out into miles echoing before him. Vast, sun-shimmering dirt and brush and the endless sky bleached pale by the scorching sun.

When had they last stopped for water?

They’d been lost for some time before they stumbled again onto wagon ruts. Trails meant water somewhere along the way, if he and his horse made it that long.

The horse gave out before they made it.

He hated to do it, but the mercy shot was quicker than leaving the poor beast to suffer. He stripped it of the saddle contents and started off on foot. He stumbled over the ruts in the earth every few feet.

Was this how it was going to end? Dying of thirst because he missed a trail marker?

It was no more than he deserved.

The sun had turned his dark clothes into a fire pit. When had he lain down on the ground?

Squeaking, creaking, clomping hooves. Boots scuffed near his head.

“Dear God, Sarah. He’s alive.”

“Get him up into the wagon. Let’s get him cooled down. Children, make room for the poor man!”

He closed his eyes and let himself drift.

It was dark when he woke again. His knees ached from the way they were bent to fit him into the cramped interior of the wagon. His head pounded to the beat of his heart. He was alive.

“Daddy, daddy, he’s awake!”

The child’s shrill voice made him wince. Rough, dry hands touched his forehead.

“You’re lucky to be alive, stranger,” a man’s voice said. “Are you mad, dumb, or can you speak? Can you say your name?”

His tongue fumbled in his mouth. “Castle.”

“Your name - it’s Castle?”

He nodded. 

“Well, Castle, you’re quite fortunate we happened upon you. You almost died. My name is David Lieberman. My family and I are traveling to Sacramento for a fresh start. I don’t know your story, but you’re welcome to travel with us until you’ve recovered. I expect you don’t have much choice, anyhow.”

His eyelids fluttered shut again. The man’s voice blurred as the darkness consumed him again.

He spent several days like that, in and out of consciousness. He learned piecemeal that David was a city man taken with the wild idea of the West. His wife’s name was Sarah, and they had two children. The boy’s name was Zachary, and they called the girl Leo.

The nightmares were worse now.

They were too kind. Painfully kind. His heart felt shattered into a thousand tiny, splintering pieces every moment he was with them. Leo would bring him samples of her sewing, show him the rag dolls she made. Zachary looked at him with huge eyes and showed him the toy horses his father had whittled him. 

They were the same age as -

David looked at his wife like she lifted the sun from its resting place in the morning and set it down at night to polish the moon. She was a good, hearty woman. Her love for her husband shown through in the way she smiled at him, the way all the tense muscles in her back relaxed when he touched her. They circled each other all day, somehow still madly in love despite the hardships and uncertainty they faced. Absolute trust.

Had he and Maria looked like that?

“Are you sure you want to go off on your own?” 

David was a good man, a kind man, and he was exactly what Castle didn’t need.

“I’ll only bring trouble to you and your people,” he said with his rusty, scraped voice. “I can’t ever repay you for what you’ve done for me. Your family would be in danger if you stayed with me.”

David was also a shrewd man.

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” he said. “But if you insist on going your own way again, I have only a question for you. You said your name was Castle, but you bear a passing resemblance to another I’ve seen. Any chance you’ve heard the name Francis Castiglione?”

The silence was damning.

David nodded. “I thought so. You’re still welcome to travel with us, Castle, but I understand your reasoning. I appreciate what you think you’re doing for us.” 

Frank tipped his hat to him. The children cried and whined when he left them, but Sarah just gave him a knowing smile and a firm handshake.

The Liebermans didn’t deserve his shit.

A few days walking brought him to a town. Some nowhere place on the bleak edge of the map. He was tired. So tired. Maybe he could stop running for now. Just rest.


	8. Claire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% sure what Bible would be used in the 1800's, much less by a blind man using the first braille-type reading and writing systems. I used the Douay-Rheims Bible for the quote just because the Douay-Rheims is particularly impressive to me. I usually just use the New American for my day-to-day business.

Motes of dust sparkled in the light of the few windows of the church. The light made the tiny fragments shine like stained glass. It was beautiful. She followed the beams of light to the windows, along the rough-hewn walls to the altar at the front of the church. 

Claire slowly walked down the aisle and bowed briefly at the altar. She felt silly. She hadn’t visited church outside of Sunday obligation in years. Matthew did a good job of keeping the church clean, despite the ever-present dust. She appreciated it now in the quiet. The sounds of people talking and working outside still filtered in, but they were muffled. There was a small statue of the Virgin set on what was little more than a stool in the corner. She paced over slowly and knelt.

Her mind felt blank. She stared into the carved face of Mary. Mary smiled back blandly and lovingly.

 _”Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega para nosotros_ ,” she whispered. 

Truly it was a time of miracles. It had been two days since Matthew had collapsed onto her floor with an arrow stuck through his body. Two days since she’d learned of an ancient war for the world, since she’d heard of blind men who could see, since she’d pulled an arrow from the body of a man she’d believed to be harmless.

That was her folly, she supposed. She’d seen enough of the evils of men in the Army. It was foolish to believe innocence in one just because he couldn’t see.

The door of the church opened. She looked over and saw Matthew himself slowly tapping his way through the church. He had a fresh linen for the altar draped over his injured arm.

“Do you even need the cane?” she found herself asking.

Her voice echoed in the church. Matthew tilted his ear towards her. His lip spasmed into what might have been a smile before he caught it. He walked past the small Mary shrine to slowly lay the cloth over the altar. His injury made his movements jerky.

“Perhaps I could walk about without it,” he said. “It helps me navigate, however. Even someone with good eyes and legs holds onto the rails of a staircase, though they could go up and down without it, correct? Sometimes it’s worth the effort to make things a little easier.”

She looked away from him to her hands folded in her lap.

“Claire, are you alright?”

She laughed. “I don’t know.”

He walked to her and knelt beside her. “What troubles you?”

“Are you a priest as well as a warrior now, Matthew?”

He smiled, but it looked to her like it wanted to be a frown. “I cannot say that I am a priest, no.”

“I am troubled,” she said quietly. She looked back at her hands. “I still do not know how much of what you told me I believe.”

“I’m sorry. I felt you were owed the truth. The whole truth.”

She hummed. She looked back at him. He looked serene. “Tell me more, Matthew. Help me understand.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What did you do? With them. The Chaste. You called yourself a weapon. What does that mean?”

Matthew sighed now and sat back on his heels. “It means what I said. I was not trained to question my master, Stick. I was trained to fight the Hand by any means necessary. I became… very good at fighting. Unfortunately, I am not very good at killing.”

She raised a brow at him. “You don’t kill?”

Matthew gestured around them. “For obvious reasons. I believe in the Church, and I believe in its teachings. ‘.Revenge not yourselves, my dearly beloved; but give place unto wrath, for it is written: Revenge is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’ Who am I to put my own wrath before His? The Hand and all of my enemies will find their justice in due time.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s… unexpected.”

He raised an eyebrow at her now. “How so?”

“Well, when you said that you were a warrior fighting ancient enemies, I was expecting more…” she grasped for a word. “Violence? Bloodshed?”

Matthew’s smirk now sent a chill down her spine. “I may not kill, Ms. Temple, but I assure you that I have quite a reputation for violence.”

“That isn’t very comforting.”

“Would you prefer I lied to you?” He echoed her own words from the other day back to her. “If you want to know what manner of man I am, this is the truth. I am a man of God, but I am also the Red Devil of the Chaste. I have fought and survived many enemies in my time. I was feared as much as I was respected.”

“So what changed? How did you end up here - of all places?”

“How does anyone end up here,” he said with a small laugh. “This place draws people in somehow. Mayhaps it’s the view.”

She fiddled with her skirt. “That’s not an answer.”

He was quiet. They listened to one of the hens from the rectory coop squawking as she lay an egg. The noise was loud enough to pierce the wood slat walls.

“My master and I had a difference of opinion,” Matthew finally said. “I left the Chaste. The Chaste, however, did not give up on me. Elektra followed me here.”

“Elektra is one of the Chaste, too?” Claire scoffed. “I should have guessed. She wasn’t very subtle about it.”

“Elektra’s always been different.”

She eyed the smile that talking about Elektra brought onto his face. It was a genuine smile, but sadness lurked around the edges. 

“Do you love her?”

Matthew startled at that, twitching full-body away from Claire. “I beg your pardon?”

“Elektra. Is she your lover?”

Matthew started laughing helplessly. “Nothing escapes you, does it Ms. Temple? To answer your question - no, Elektra is no longer my lover. She and I are… not good for one another. We bring out our worst parts. I care for her, but she is just a violent ghost of my past.”

Claire nodded and accepted the answer. She tucked a stray whisp of hair behind her ear. Matthew leaned into her vision suddenly. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing the lower edge of her lip.

“If you’ll forgive my boldness,” Matthew said quietly. “I would say that coming to this town was a strange business, but I am… not unhappy to be here. You are one of the blessings of this town.”

She brought her hand up to cup his. She closed her eyes and leaned into it. She felt his breath ghosting over her cheek. She gently pushed him away. When she opened her eyes, his face was a mask of confusion.

“I care for you, Matthew,” she said. “But I am not… I am not the kind of woman to jump into things of this matter. I need time, and distance. You’ve given me much to contemplate.”

Matthew’s face fell into etched lines. “I see. I apologize for my directness.”

She grasped his hand in hers. “I just need some time to think, Matthew. Don’t be a stranger. If you have need of me, just call upon me.”

“I will,” he said. He stood and dusted his trousers off. “I will leave you and the Mother alone again. Thank you for your time, Ms. Temple.”

“It’s still Claire, if you wish it,” she said.

His face twitched and settled on an easy smile. “Good day, Claire.”

“Good day, Matthew.” She watched him leave the church. She turned back to the Virgin’s statue. “Whatever am I going to do, Madre?”

The statue had no answers.


	9. Elektra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the longer-than-usual delay between chapters. I've kind of bit off more than I can chew with, like, four in-progress stories in my documents folder. Prosperity is slow writing.
> 
> Please enjoy this latest chapter.

Stick arrived much as he always did - dramatically and just a bit too late to be useful.

“Ellie,” he said.

Elektra didn’t flinch, just knocked back her glass of mescal and turned to cock her head inquisitively at her mentor. Her sardonic expression was wasted on the blind man. He liked to make airs, but he wasn’t nearly as talented as Matthew at however they managed to get around without their eyes. She humored him with her own one-word answer.

“Stick.”

The old man let himself into her private chamber as confidently as he pleased. She spared an idle thought to wonder how the shabby blind man had gotten through a roomful of her girls without one of them coming to warn her. Not that it mattered.

“We’ve got a big problem, Ellie.”

“Just one?” She laughed and poured another glass. “At my last count, we were up to three Fingers on the outskirts of town - Gao, Bakuto, and Sowande are here. Matthew has been unable to determine what they’re doing out there other than digging a very large hole. He even managed to get himself shot by one of their bows. He’s lucky they didn’t bother to dip their arrowheads in poison.”

Stick waved a dismissive hand and made himself at home on her little decorative poof. “I’m not concerned about Matty. He’s a tough kid. There’s bigger things to worry about.”

“Which I could help you with if you would just make your point already.”

The old man looked nervous. It made dread pool in her stomach. If it was bad enough to make _Stick_ nervous, then it was quite bad indeed.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to have this conversation with you, Ellie. I avoided it as long as possible. The Hand showing up here, where you and Matthew happened to be… It’s too much to be coincidence. If they don’t know about you, then they’ll soon find out. Best you hear from me before they whisper their poison in your ears.”

A muscle twitched in her jaw. “You’re belaboring the point, old man.”

“You might as well come in,” he said suddenly, tilting his head to the balcony. “You’re going to need to know this, too.”

Matthew slunk in from the balcony in his little incognito outfit. He crossed his arms and leaned against one of her tassled velvet curtains with an unimpressed sneer on his lips. Elektra spared him one of her glances before she refocused on Stick.

“You two remember the legend of the Black Sky?”

Matthew tensed further. “You mean the legend that provoked you into killing that little boy?”

“Oh come on, Matty,” Stick said with a roll of his cloudy eyes. “You’re not still upset about that, are you? You’ve seen dead men return to life, but you lost your faith over one small death?”

“He was a _child_.”

“He was dangerous,” he snapped. “You’re missing the point. Do you remember the legend or not?”

“I do,” Elektra said just to break them up. “The Hand will look for a weapon, and they will find it in the Black Sky. The Black Sky is a warrior without peer, mirror to the Iron Fist of K’un-Lun. A warrior with limitless potential, who will help bring about the true reign of the Hand.”

“Good.” Stick shifted uncomfortably. “The Black Sky requires a resurrection to unlock their true potential, and not just anyone can do it. You could be a gifted warrior like Matthew and still not be enough. You have to have the spark.”

“But what does the Black Sky have to do with the Hand now?” Matthew asked. “Is that why they’re here? That doesn’t make sense. If the Black Sky is a person, why are they digging?”

“I have my theories about the digging,” Stick said. “But I don’t know for sure yet. The Hand is always after something wherever they go, and it must be important if the Fingers are gathering. No, they may not be here for the Black Sky, but their leader is obsessed with the legend. When they discover that it is here, they will not rest trying to acquire it.”

“The Black Sky is here?” Elektra asked. “Who is it? I shall decapitate them and render their body useless to the Hand.”

“It’s you, Ellie,” Stick blurted. The words looked like they cut him on the way out of his mouth. “You are the one. You have the potential to become the Black Sky. You always have.”

Elektra didn’t move. Matthew was completely still as well. Stick’s usually closed-off face was open and tormented. She grasped her glass and finished off her mescal. She carefully didn’t say anything as she turned away from the two men to load a cigarette into her holder.

“May I have a light, Matthew?” she finally said.

Stick twitched, but remained still. A muscle jumped in Matthew’s jaw, but he still paced over to her vanity to grab a lamp. He lifted the cover and held it still while she lit her cigarette by its flame.

“Thank you,” she said. She took a long drag and slowly blew smoke into a cloud around her. “So, which one of you will do it?”

Stick tilted his head at her. “Do what?”

She took another drag. “Which of you is going to cut my head off?”

Matthew reached up and dragged his scarf off. His face was tortured. “I’m not going to let that happen, Elektra.”

Stick was silent.

“It’s the only way, isn’t it? You cannot let the Hand get the Black Sky. I am the Black Sky.” She forced herself to shrug. The words were ash in her mouth. “It is what I would do. If it were any of you, I would cut your head off without hesitation rather than let them have you.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Matthew said more forcefully. 

“What other option is there? You know that the Hand does not give up on what they want lightly.”

“There may be another way,” Stick grated out. “There is still balance. You are not the Black Sky yet, and we still have the Iron Fist. We might have a chance.”

“The Iron Fist guards the Way,” Matthew hissed out. “He is no good to us here. And where are the rest of the Chaste, Stick? Why haven’t you brought them here?”

Good point. Elektra raised her brow at the old man.

“They’re gone,” Stick admitted. “Agents of the Hand. They ambushed us at the dojo. I barely survived.”

“Convenient,” said Matthew.

“That’s why it took me so long to get here,” Stick rasped. “I nearly died.”

“None of this helps me,” said Elektra. “If the Hand desires my potential, then I must either flee from them or be destroyed. You both know how futile it is to flee. We would save time arguing if you would just consent to destroy my body.”

“You’re not listening. The Iron Fist is no longer guarding the pass. He is here. On this realm.”

“How do you know this?” Matthew asked.

“I do, and so do you. You’ve met him already.”

Elektra watched Matthew’s useless eyes dart about as he pieced things together. “The rich boy at the inn?”

“One Daniel Rand,” Stick confirmed. “He disappeared as a child when his wealthy father took him east for a business deal. He recently returned to New York to reacquire his estate.”

“That boy is the Iron Fist?”

Elektra smirked. “You don’t sound impressed.”

“He’s a decent fighter, but the boy is as green as a new leaf.” Matthew’s frown was impressive. “And what are the odds that the Iron Fist, the one who could change the tide of the war, would just happen upon this place?”

Stick’s smirk was ugly. “And what are the odds that the Red Devil of the Chaste and the Black Sky would end up here, that the thing the Hand has been seeking would be here, that all Fingers would converge at the same time as the last leader of the Chaste? That the Iron Fist would abandon K’un-Lun and make his way here? The end times are here, boy. This is the end of the war. Don’t you believe in fate?”

“I stopped believing in this fate a long time ago,” Matthew bit out. “I abandoned this war, Stick. I want nothing to do with it.”

“You may have abandoned the war, boy, but the war never let go of you. You think it’s better to be poor, blind, useless Matthew Murdock right now? You can play at this normal life you want so badly when the world’s done ending.” He lowered his voice and smirked. “We don’t need Matthew Murdock right now. We need the Red Devil.”

Matthew hung his head and didn’t answer. Elektra watched the muscles in his jaw spasm from the grinding of his teeth.

Elektra sighed. “So what do we do, Stick?” 

Stick stood up and grabbed his cane-sword. “We bide our time until Alexandra gets here. We find out why they’re here. And we find warriors.”

Elektra raised an eyebrow. “Warriors?”

Matthew smirked at her. “I have to agree with Stick. The Chaste are a bit… denuded of late.”

“Three people - even us - against the entirety of the Hand isn’t odds I’d like to take,” Stick agreed. “We need to get the Iron Fist on our side, and find others who can help.”

Elektra mentally reviewed the town. “We may have trouble finding warriors here.”

“People will surprise you.” Stick made for the balcony and paused at the threshold. “It was good to see you, Ellie. I’ll be around.” He nodded briskly at Matthew and disappeared.

Matthew waited a moment with his head cocked before he cautiously approached her. “Elektra… are you okay?”

She closed her eyes and inhaled her cigarette. Was she? She idly glanced around the room, looking at all the gaudy trappings she’d bought with her adopted father’s wealth. The Natchios name always weighed strangely on her tongue.

The Black Sky was even stranger.

She was a legend. A tale told to scare children. The weapon of the Hand.

She snubbed her cigarette out with a snarl.

“I’m fine, Matthew,” she snapped. 

He smirked at her, damn him. “Do you need me to tell you you’re not?”

She glared at him. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded and backed away.

“Promise me something, Matthew.”

“What is it?”

She poured herself another glass of mescal. Sobriety was off the table tonight. “If, in our battles with the Hand, I should fall…”

“I won’t kill you, Elektra.”

“I know that, Matthew. You were always the most moral of us. Stick’s greatest failure, never snuffing your mercy out of you.” She knocked back half the glass with a hiss at the burn. “I merely ask, should I die in this battle… please remove my head from my body.”

Matthew turned his face away from her, but not before she saw it crumple. “It won’t come to that, Elektra.”

“But if it _does_ ,” she insisted.

Matthew was silent.

“Promise me, Matthew.” She was drunk enough to plead, now. “Promise me that you won’t let them bring me back. No matter how your guilt may wish me back, hear me now. I want you to destroy me. Do not let me become a thing for them to use.”

His fists clenched so the knuckles turned white. Slowly, slowly, he let the tension drain from his shoulders until his fists relaxed. He turned to face her.

“You ask a lot of me, Elektra.”

She smirked an ugly smirk and twisted her knife in. “If you ever loved me, Matthew, you would promise me this.”

He closed his eyes. “You never did fight fair… Fine. I swear to you, if the Hand does kill you, I will make sure they can’t take your body for their use. Ask me no more than that, Elektra, if you ever loved me.”

Touche. She lifted her glass in a toast and finished her drink. “Thank you, Matthew.”

His smile was sad and fond. “I’ll be off, then. Take care.”

She watched him go the same way as Stick. Fools, both of them. Optimistic fools. As if she were worth the love they held for her. She could still feel the blood of her first kill on her hands. Still felt that same electric rush from when she first saw Matthew in his black and red robes with red red blood flying in arcs from his fists. Still tasted the metal of their first bloody kiss, and every brutal, soft thing they shared afterward. 

The Black Sky.

Elektra Natchios drove it from her mind. Prophecy and pain could wait for the morning.


	10. Karen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really don't want to abandon this story. It got lost somewhere along the way. I'm going to try to add it to my writing time along with my main story and little side projects. No promises about a regular update schedule, and I am so sorry about that.

"Have you ever been to a city, Karen?”

Karen looked up from the dime novel she was reading instead of the inventory ledger. Foggy was no better. He’d been sitting on a rocking chair playing with a cup-and-ball for at least half an hour.

“Not really,” she said. “I’ve been to towns, but never somewhere as big as the Capital or New York City. Why do you ask?”

Foggy shrugged. “Just wondering. I’m just… stir-crazy, here.”

Karen hummed in agreement. “It is rather boring here.”

Foggy kept tossing and catching the ball until he missed. He slowly lowered the toy. “I’m a terrible person.”

Karen set her novel down. “What? No you’re not. Trust me, Foggy, you are not a terrible person.”

“I am, though. I’m jealous of Matthew.”

“Of Matthew? Why?”

Foggy groaned and started playing with the toy again. “It’s foolish. I’m jealous because he’s educated. Which - I know - is only because he was in a terrible accident and lost his sight. I know that. And I know he still can’t read more than a handful of books because nobody writes them in those bumpy letters he reads. I know all that. I’m just…”

“Just what?”

“I just wish it were me, is all. I wish I could have lived in New York City. Seen all those people. Learned something that wasn’t just the Bible and dime novels and how to count sacks of corn meal. I could have done something. Been a judge or a congressman, written poetry.”

She couldn’t help a small laugh. “You write poetry, Foggy?”

He smiled at her. “Maybe. Terrible stuff, though.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Leave. Go to a city.”

Foggy groaned and stood up to stretch. “Money, Karen. The folly of all men - and beautiful shopkeepers’ apprentices. I can’t afford schooling like that, or even a train ride out of here. Besides, my mother needs me here, running the shop.”

Karen bit her lip. Foggy looked so downtrodden. “Maybe you’ll get out of here one day. You’re still young.”

“Maybe.” Foggy finished stretching and sighed. “I’ll be in the back. Old Man Morrison brought a hog in for me to butcher up for him. I’ve been putting it off. If you need me, holler.”

“Alright, Foggy,” She watched him walk off and set her novel down with a sigh. She chewed her lip. There was no easy answer to his problem. A shadow over the window had her looking up in time to see the newcomer slink through the open doorway. Karen’s mouth fell open. 

The newcomer was dressed all in black, from his hat to the boots on his feet. There were saddle bags slung over his shoulder, and his worn clothes were covered in a layer of dirt and dust. What really entraptered her were his eyes. She’d seen rabbits lulled by staring into a snake’s eyes. She felt like the rabbit in this case. A wild beard led her eyes up sharp cheekbones, a large nose that had seen better days, long ago, and a pair of dark, shifting eyes that seemed to stare right into her soul.

They stared at each other in silence for a minute before Karen remembered her manners.

“Oh, yes, welcome to Nelson’s. Can - can I get something for you, sir?”

Her voice broke whatever spell the man was under. He shook his head and dug in his pockets for his purse.

“I don’t have a lot of money.” The man’s voice was a gravelly scrape on her ears. His accent was strange - bit like Matthew’s without the lilt. Some other note to it. Italian, maybe? “I just need some supplies.”

“Alright.” Karen stood to help. “What do you need?”

The man glanced around uncertainly. He seemed to decide. “Do you have dried meat?”

She broke into a genuine smile. “Sir, this is the butcher shop. We have any meat you could need. Bacon, salt pork, three kinds of jerky, smoked hams, sausage…”

“Jerky, then. Half a pound of salt pork. Two pounds of dried beans.” He counted his coins again. “As much corn meal as this will buy me.”

Karen dutifully counted out the coins. He really didn’t have a lot. He seemed lost, staring around the shop as she bustled about, grabbing his items. Karen took pity on him. When she came back to the counter, she took one of Foggy’s little paper bags and carefully poured some hard candies into it and twisted it closed.

The man frowned at her. “What are you doing?”

She flushed red. She could feel it all the way up to her ears. “I’m just… I’m sorry, sir, but you seem like you’ve had a rough time of it recently. I just thought…”

The man’s dark eyes were piercing into her again. He looked even more lost. His hand reached out and closed over her own, the one that was holding the candies. His hand was dry and hard and rough. Her pulse pounded in her throat.

“Thank you, ma’am.” The man cleared his throat and gave her what he thought was a smile. It looked foreign on his face. “I keep getting surprised by the kindness I’ve found out here.”

She swallowed. “Out here, folks have to be neighbors. A little kindness can save someone’s life.”

The man’s smile quirked up more on the edge. “I’ve seen that.” He gathered the groceries into his saddle bags. “Thank you for your kindness, miss.”

“It’s Karen,” she blurted out.

The man paused on his way to the door. He tipped his hat to her. “Good to meet you, Karen. I’m Frank.”

“Frank,” she repeated.

“I’ll see you around,” he said. 

She nodded dumbly and watched him walk away. Once he was out the door, she darted around the counter to peer through the window at his dark figure striding away through town. She was still flushed, and her tongue felt useless in her mouth. She pinched her arm and cursed to herself.

Not here. Not now. She couldn’t do this again.


	11. Luke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have an ETA on the next chapter, but please enjoy Luke's perspective.

“Luke!” Pop said when he heard the little bell above his shop ring. “Back for your shave?”

Luke rubbed his hand over the short, bristly hairs covering his head. “How could you tell, Pop?”

“I have my ways,” the man laughed. “Take a seat. I’ll get you taken care of as soon as I’ve finished here.”

Luke took a seat in one of the hard-backed chairs. The blind man from the church was in the other chair. Pop was finishing up shaving the scruffy beard he always seemed to grow into by the time Luke saw him around town.

The blind man smiled as Pop finished wiping the foam from his face. “Thank you again, sir. Father nearly took my chin off last time I asked him for help.”

Pop laughed his easy laugh. “No trouble at all, Mr. Murdock. You keep coming here to spend your pennies, I’ll make sure we don’t let the good Father cut your face all up.”

“Sounds like a deal.” Murdock shook hands with the old barber. “And please, call me Matthew. No one around here bothers with mister.”

“Sure thing. You have a nice day now.”

The man tilted his head quizzically at Luke as he walked past. He felt a small shiver go down his spine as those empty marble eyes rolled over him. The blind man just nodded at him amiably and wandered out of the shop, tapping along the floor with his cane.

“He come here often?” Luke asked. 

Pop shrugged and bundled up some soiled towels. “Not often enough. Boy looks scruffy more often than not. Guess he doesn’t mind what he looks like, though, doesn’t he? Why do you ask?”

“I’m not sure. The man gives me a strange feeling, that’s all.”

A towel whapped against his shoulder, dragging his attention back to Pop. Pop put his hands on his hips. “Now, boy, I won’t have you treating Mr. Matthew any different than you’d treat anyone else. Didn’t your mama ever teach you better than to judge folks for their infirmities?”

Luke rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it, Pop. I just don’t like the mystery of him.”

Pop rolled his eyes right back. “And you can talk, Mr. Man of Few Words?”

“Point,” he conceded. He put the strange man out of his mind. “What’s new in town, Pop?”

Pop draped a cloth over him and sharpened his razor back up on a strap. “Well, let’s see. There’s more folks joining the caravan out west. Still won’t say what they’re up to out there. I’ve had a few come in for haircuts, one for a rotten tooth. They keep to themselves.”

“What do you reckon they’re after?”

“No one knows.” Pop took his scissors and ran his hand over Luke’s head before he started cropping his overgrown hair and beard a bit shorter. “They won’t say, and Sam’s afraid of starting anything he’s not willing to finish. Tension’s up enough without being hostile. There’s another stranger in town, too.”

“Not a caravan man?”

Pop shook his head. Luke turned his head to watch him mix up his shaving foam with practiced movements. “No, this man’s a white man, dressed all in black. He wandered into town on foot just yesterday. He drank from the well, filled his canteen, and went directly to the grocer. After he did that, he walked right out of town the way he came.”

“That’s strange.”

“Stranger thing is that he’s set up a camp on the east side of town. Now, don’t go spreading this, but I looked at his tent myself. It looks like an Army tent.”

Luke frowned. Pop started dabbing the cream over his head. “A lone Army man?”

“Probably a deserter or a criminal.” Pop nodded knowingly. He grabbed his razor. “Bad news, either way. Let’s hope he moves on once he’s rested a bit. From what I’ve been told, he looked a little sun-worn up close. Mayhap he’s just resting before he continues on his way.”

Luke hummed thoughtfully and held still as the razor ran over his scalp. One more stranger shouldn’t bother him, but the very mention of the Army had his skin crawling. He wasn’t going back. Though, with the way he was now, he wondered if anyone could make him do anything anymore.

“You’re brooding, boy,” Pop said.

“I’m just worried,” he mumbled.

“Strange times, it’s no wonder you worry. Seems like you could use a break.”

“I don’t need a break,” he scoffed.

“Mmhmm,” he said. “Right. What you done since you got here? Hid in that workshop and made horseshoes and nails all day and night? I can see a man who’s running, boy. At some point you’ve gotta stop running and face whatever you’re running from.”

“And if you’re running from the US Army and slave auctioneers?” He raised a challenging eyebrow at the older man. “You want me to face them?”

Pop gave him a supremely unimpressed look. “And either one of them are in Mrs. Walker’s taproom?”

Luke faltered. “Uh, well…”

“I thought so.” Pop wiped off the last of the shaving foam, leaving him bald as a baby’s bottom. “Do yourself a favor, Carl Lucas. Rejoin society. Make some friends. It would do a body good. And -” he shot him a grin “-if your Army or your slavers come knocking, having friends on your side could only help.”

He stood up from the chair and helped Pop gather his tools and towels. He forcibly smoothed the frown out of his brow. “You really think I should open up a little?”

“Boy, do I ever say anything I don’t mean?”

He raised his brow at him. “You keep calling me ‘boy’ - you know I could throw you like a horseshoe, right?”

Pop gave the muscles straining the fabric of his shift that same unimpressed look. “I’d like to see you try… _Boy_.”

They stared each other down for a good ten seconds before they cracked. Pop slapped him on the back. Luke felt his grin pulling the muscles of his cheeks.

“Get on out of here, Luke.”

“Will do, Pop.” Luke gave him a small salute and left the shop.

His feet turned automatically to head back to his workshop, but he stopped himself. Pop was right. He’d been in this town for nearing two years, and he’d not made any friends except his apprentices and Pop. Maybe it was time to stop living in fear.

Mind made up, he strode down main street, eyes forward, ignoring the curious looks of the townspeople. His confidence wavered just as he got to the swinging doors of the inn, but he’d come too far to back down now. He walked in.

It was supper time, and the inn had quite a few patrons buying a meal. Mrs. Walker herself was noticeably absent, which he couldn’t help but see as a blessing. The woman’s shrewd eyes always made him uncomfortable.

Ms. Patricia was pouring out bourbon at the bar. Her eyes widened at the sight of him before her mouth curved in a catlike smile. She waved at him and ran off into the kitchen.

Luke shrugged and found himself a seat. A moment later, Ms. Patricia was back at the bar, and Ms. Jessica was striding out of the kitchen with a platter. She gave him a wide-eyed glance as she took the food to another table. He waited patiently for her to come back.

She’d mastered her face into a narrow-eyed smirk when she got back to him.

“Mr. Lucas. I never thought I’d see the day you came into our inn.” She cocked her hip in an appealing way and crossed her arms. “You here just to be a part of the scene, or are you here for supper?”

He dragged his eyes up from her figure and smiled. “I’d like some supper, ma’am. And -” he leaned in conspiratorily. “My friends actually just call me Luke.”

Ms. Jessica’s eyes darted around the nearby tables, but they were close enough to private for her to lean back and murmur, “Not in polite company, I won’t. Dorothy would tan my hide.”

“True,” he said. “What’s for supper?”

“Jackrabbit stew and johnnycakes,” she snapped back quickly. “And a pint of beer if you’re interested.”

“Sounds great,” he said warmly. “Who caught the rabbits?”

She waved her hand dismissively, but her shrewd eyes betrayed how interested she was in the answer. “The new fella camped outside of town sold the meat to us and the hide to Mr. Potter.”

“What did you think of him?”

She shrugged. “He was polite and said absolutely nothing about himself, even with my step-mother putting out the full force of her charm. I don’t have much of an opinion of him beyond marveling at his restraint. Let me fetch your supper.”

He watched her walk off, admiring again her thin figure and curvy hips. When he looked up, her sister was giving him a knowing grin. He felt his cheeks flush and he immediately occupied himself looking at his hands. Before long, a pint of beer and a bowl of stew was set in front of him. It smelled a lot better than the pot of beans he usually had simmering over his fire.

“This looks wonderful,” he said to Ms. Jessica.

Her face colored a bit at the compliment. “I can’t take the credit. Trish did most of it.”

“Still,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Eat up now. Don’t be a stranger.” With that she fled back to the bar to exchange a heated whispering conversation with her sister.

Luke shrugged and started eating. The stew was good - full of savory chunks of lean rabbit and chopped vegetables. The beer washed the johnnycake down nicely. He hated to admit it, but maybe Pop was right. Joining society had been pretty nice so far.

A flash of yellow had him glancing up to see the dandy from the other day fumbling with his kerchief as he walked into the taproom. Luke watched him nearly walk into Old Man Morrison and get griped at. He apologized with a beautific smile that had the old man walking away with only a few more grumbles. The dandy caught sight of Luke and broke into an even bigger smile.

“Mr. Lucas,” he said with a tone of utter delight. “How good it is to see you again. May I sit with you?”

Luke sighed into his stew and gestured to the other chair. “If you like.”

The boy sat down gingerly and kept smiling at him. “How have you been, good fellow?”

“Pardon me, sir,” Luke said. “But I find I can’t recall your name.”

The boy’s smile barely even flagged. “That’s quite alright. It’s Daniel Rand, though my friends call me Danny.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Do you always make friends so quickly?”

Danny shrugged easily. “I do not have much patience for pleasantries. If I like someone, why should I not strike up a friendship right away?”

“But you’ve barely met me,” he reasoned.

“I sense a kindred spirit in you,” the boy said. “The heart of a warrior.”

Luke’s skin crawled. “A warrior?”

Danny hesitated then. “Figuratively, perhaps.”

Luke gave him another incredulous look and tried to enjoy his stew again. Danny was doing a poor job of looking casual.

“Is there something you want?” 

Danny smiled again - though it looked now that the smile was merely a habit. “Just to be friendly. Most folks out here have been very kind and welcoming, and you helped me on my first day here. I appreciate it, is all.”

“It was no trouble,” Luke said.

Danny stood up. “I should be off now. It was good to speak to you again, Mr. Lucas. I hope we cross paths again.”

“Likewise.”

Danny beamed one more time and slipped away. Ms. Jessica slid into his peripheral with another mug of beer. 

“What did he want?”

Luke shrugged. “Just to be friendly, I think.”

She snorted. “In my experience? Nobody ever does anything without wanting something.”

She had a point. He took the mug from her and drank his beer. Time would tell.


End file.
